


get out ahead of the hurricane

by phaetonschariot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Catharsis, Dealing with It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10069349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phaetonschariot/pseuds/phaetonschariot
Summary: “Okay, uh huh,” Sam says, andnowhis voice is strained. “Just warning you I'm probably gonna be loud, this is-- yeah, this is real intense.”“Bad intense?”“No, man, what the hell, I'd tell you to take it out if it was.” He lifts his head just enough to shoot Bucky one of those ‘where the fuck did you come from, were you raised by wolves?’ looks that he's really good at.*It's a little overwhelming, like something he's been carrying around that's been dormant and dying and only now that he's gotten close to the sunlight has it started to grow until it's big enough to threaten to tear its way out of him entirely. It's just obvious that he'd want Sam, sometimes it's like he's surprised all the plants don't grow leaning in his direction. He's not so sure about the rest of the equation.





	

It's such a little thing, really, the metal rod in Bucky's hands. About 6 millimetres in circumference, 150 long, all shiny and smooth and reflecting the light in the same way his old arm did. The new one is matte, and he finds it more practical most of the time. It can be difficult to be stealthy when a beam of sunlight can light up your presence for anyone to see. Part of him wants to ask if Sam ever has that problem. But he doesn't know how to explain that he doesn't mean it literally.

He rolls the rod through the puddle of lube again, trying to focus on what he's doing rather than the man spread out next to him on the bed, held tightly in place with leather cuffs. Bucky could break those easily, if he wanted, but Sam would have to work for it, and the knowledge gnaws deep in his gut.

“It looks good, man,” Sam says gently, and Bucky jerks a nod. He can hear _get on with it already_ under the words. He has to take a steadying breath, though, before he can turn to really take in what Sam looks like right now. Despite Bucky still being fully dressed Sam is naked, somehow more than naked, laid out bare and horribly vulnerable, dick lying soft and relaxed in the V of his hips a contrast with the taut lines of his stomach muscles.

He rolls his fingers, testing each joint and knuckle to make sure they're still limber. The right hand, that is. The other is always ready.

Loose metal grip around his dick. Thumb resting just under the head to make it easy to find the entrance. He lines up his other hand and gently, gently, gently lets the tip of the rod slide into Sam's urethra, dropping a little before he catches it firmly. Sam breathes out heavily, and Bucky frowns up at him. “Is that-- okay?”

“Yeah, baby, s’fine.” His hips move just minutely, all he can really manage with his body pulled so tight, and even though Bucky stares at his face for several seconds he can't detect any sign that he doesn't mean it. He just looks… patient. Relaxed.

How can he be _relaxed_ right now, with so little control? Bucky could--

It's fine. It's fine. He makes an effort to look down again, to let the rod slide in further, a quarter inch or half inch at a time, tense and waiting for Sam to stop him, any second now.

He doesn't. Bucky can feel the slight resistance when the tip of the rod gets to the base of his dick and stops there. From what he's read if it goes much further it will be more complicated to get back out, dangerous when he's properly erect, and with the coil of tension that's replaced all of his inner workings Bucky doesn't want to have to wait for him to get soft again if it needs to come out quickly.

“Okay, uh huh,” Sam says, and _now_ his voice is strained. “Just warning you I'm probably gonna be loud, this is-- yeah, this is real intense.”

“Bad intense?”

“No, man, what the hell, I'd tell you to take it out if it was.” He lifts his head just enough to shoot Bucky one of those ‘where the fuck did you come from, were you raised by wolves?’ looks that he's really good at. The movement deprives Bucky of the gorgeous sight of his head thrown back, the long line of his throat bared and inviting, but he's enjoying the beginnings of a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead and cheeks and the glitter in his eyes. It's almost too much.

He doesn't have anything to say to that, though. Instead he slowly moves the rod in and out a little, listening to the “ah, ah, ah” it drags out of Sam. His dick is getting harder now for sure, and-- he wasn't sure if it would be *fun* to do this, or cathartic (cathartic, from Greek kartharsis, ‘cleansing’, not kathienai ‘send down’ - the root of catheter), or even just horrible and sticky with the bad kind of memories. Fun might be the closest though. Feeling the delicate skin in his hands and _doing things_ , doing them to someone else to make them _feel good_ , it's-- Okay, fun is wrong. It's a little overwhelming, like something he's been carrying around that's been dormant and dying and only now that he's gotten close to the sunlight has it started to grow until it's big enough to threaten to tear its way out of him entirely. It's just obvious that he'd want Sam, sometimes it's like he's surprised all the plants don't grow leaning in his direction. He's not so sure about the rest of the equation.

When he looks up again - can't help looking, sometimes - Sam's eyes are closed and his chest is rising and falling like when he comes in from a run and collapses all over the couch. Except, of course, more naked. Bucky has to hold his hands very, very still as he leans over to press a kiss to that hot, damp skin. Sam hums under him. “Try turning it a little.”

He does, spinning it slowly downwards like a corkscrew, and Sam arches up with a groan. Good sound, definitely, so he does it a couple more times - never too fast, dragging everything out like the changing colours of the evening sky - and listens to him panting between the other noises escaping his mouth. It's open, lips parted now as he's more noisy than quiet, tongue darting out every so often to wet them. Bucky wants to kiss him properly, to whisper words into the tiny gaps between them, gorgeous and beautiful and perfect, but he can't lean over that far and still cradle his dick protectively to keep the rod in place. Instead he ducks down, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of the head, tastes lube and stainless steel and pre-cum and sweat as Sam whines.

It's an indulgence of a few seconds to lick at him, little kitty laps of the tongue just to savour the taste, the feel. Then he pulls back just enough to pay attention to what he's doing again, moving the fingers of his right hand up the length of metal a little and holding it firmly before taking a breath, releasing his grip on Sam's dick, and tapping with the back of one metal finger against the sound to make it vibrate.

Sam _yells_ , and must sense Bucky's alarm because he immediately goes into a ragged chant of, “Green, fuck, green-green-green!” that makes Bucky do it again and this time he immediately moves his hand back down to gently jack his dick around the steel at its core, prompting a string of garbled noises that are hard to decipher but that he's pretty sure are good, especially when they resolve into, “Fuck, I'm-- out, out, I'm gonna--”

This is the part he's most nervous of, trying to find the balance between pulling it out smooth and fast and not risking tearing him up inside. He couldn't bear-- It would hurt, he _knows_ it would, and he has to tamp down sharply on the fear that nags at him as he pulls gently, not-too-fast not-too-fast don't-angle-it, and it feels like forever until he has the whole thing in his hand and can drop it, unheeded, on the bed as he dives back onto Sam's dick and _sucks_ , moaning loud enough that he can't actually make out what Sam is shouting as he shoots off into his mouth, into his _throat_. It lasts forever, his hips shoving up as far as he can get them into Bucky's face, head of his dick hitting the back of his throat and making him tear up a bit.

Sam falls back onto the mattress, taking huge desperate breaths, his whole body shiny now with sweat, and Bucky can't look away, can't see anything but him, like Sam is the point that the rest of the universe rotates around. He stares and stares, taking his fill, until Sam recovers enough to give him a shaky smile and close his eyes. He's still cuffed to the bed but it's almost as though he's _forgotten_ how vulnerable he is right now, that Bucky could do anything and he wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop it. The thought lays a hot sort of horror in Bucky's chest and he pulls his hands back abruptly, shifting to the very edge of the mattress and wrapping his arms around his knees so he can't be tempted.

There's a pause before Sam has enough air in him to speak. “Colour?”

“Wh-- What?” The colour thing was for Sam, to make sure Bucky couldn't get confused and think it was okay to keep doing something wrong, or if he slipped, if he hurt him without thinking about it. 

“ _Colour_ ,” Sam insists. “I'm really, really green right now, where are you at?”

He opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out. He doesn't know. He's never really had to think about it before. They don't _do_ this sort of thing, for the most part, and as much as he spends a stupid amount of time wondering what the hell Sam gets out of this aside from orgasms he doesn't have to give himself, he's usually able to keep those thoughts secret. He tucks his right hand into the cuff of his sweater, keeping his eyes averted.

Sam's the one tied naked to a bed, why does _he_ feel so rubbed raw and wide open?

This exhale sounds more deliberate than all the other ones, like Sam's cleaning out his thoughts by blowing them all away. “Hey, come get these cuffs, okay?”

Cuffs. Aftercare. Fuck, he'd read a shit ton about that, he wasn't supposed to forget. He's already at the bottom end of the bed so he starts with Sam's ankles, deliberate movements that end by stroking the warm flesh hand over skin reddened from the restraints. That done he slid off the bed entirely to move up for the others, using the excuse to not have to look at his face. 

As soon as they're both free Sam lurches up, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close, and Bucky wants to object - his shoulders must be _killing_ him - but it feels so good to just tuck his head under Sam's chin and feel the soothing touch of his hands moving over his back and sides through his clothes. “There you go,” Sam murmurs, all soft and low with a little bit of caramel. “You're okay, baby. It's all good, you did so good.”

There's no way he can stop the sudden flow of water from his eyes like this, with Sam everywhere around him, the warmth and smell of it, like he really wants to know that Bucky's okay. It's-- it's too much, is the thing, too overwhelming to hold back the full on sobs that want to wrack his body, and all Sam does is hold on tighter and he doesn't _understand_. 

“Why--” The word, when he feels at least a little able to be coherent, comes out wetly, and he has to sniff and swallow and try to start again. “Why would you let me _do_ that?”

It's plaintive, a question from a distressed child, and Sam lifts a hand to stroke his hair and make him shiver. “Because you asked me to.”

“But I could have hurt you. On accident or-- or on purpose. You couldn't do anything, you'd have to just--” Take it. Knowing there was no escape, that even if he could break free it would take so long that they could have done anything to him in the meantime, things to sap at his strength and horrify his mind, put him into shock, easy to overpower no matter how quickly he could take someone down one-on-one.

The fingers in his hair don't stop moving, feeling so good on his scalp, and he'd want to cry if he wasn't doing so already. “You won't hurt me.”

“But how do you _know_?” He can't, Bucky's sure of it, but there's another part of himself that's equally sure that he must, because Sam always has the answers. Or, if he doesn't, he knows how to talk through the problem until it doesn't seem so bad at all.

Sam presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Because I see how much it scares you,” he murmurs, the words for him alone even though they're the only ones in the room. “You'd do anything not to. I see that, and I believe it.”

He says it with such sureness that it almost seems possible, that if he said they were in Fiji Bucky would be honestly surprised to walk outside later and find that they weren't. Bucky's _never_ been that sure of anything - not except Steve, always Steve, like he's where the compass needle’s always pointing. But that metaphor doesn't work anymore. There's no room on a compass for two different due norths. He doesn't know how to feel about that, either, everything just too intense right now to separate anything out.

When he doesn't have anything else to say Sam lets it lie, instead rocking him gently as the crying settles into a silent flow of tears. After a little while he starts to hum. Bucky doesn't recognise the song, but he's sure it's good.


End file.
